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Title: 10 Summoners Tales: She's Too Good for Me
Author: xSaBx
Spoilers: Season One stuff.
Disclaimers: Evie, Max, Mickey and the two girls are mine. Passing references to the WW gang, and they are owned by the Evil Genius.
Thanks: You know who you are.
Category: New Characters/General ==
She's too Good for Me "She don't want to save my life She don't want to be my wife, But oh, the games we play..." She called me a walking cliché: she knew it always got a reaction when she went for my obsession with alcohol. I now love the fact that she cared enough about me to say something in the first place. I don't have many friends like that, at least not now. My sister occasionally tries to lay down the law, but she's got enough problems of her own without having to worry about her idiot kid brother.
Mickey's picking her up from La Guardia in an hour. I'm nervous: my hands are shaking, my stomach churning but I'm drinking Snapple. It's no wonder there are so many alcoholics out there if this is what everyone else drinks for pleasure. I went to the barbers early for a cut and shave, thought I'd make a real effort. I've even pulled out a different jacket, something that she chose a long time ago which unbelievably still fits me. If you don't look too closely, I might just pass as respectable.
I haven't had a drink in seven months. She doesn't know I went to AA because I got fed up with her comparing me to every alcoholic newspaper reporter that's ever been written about or filmed. In the end my drinking wasn't bad: I didn't down bottles of spirits a day, I wasn't hiding stuff in the laundry so people couldn't find it. It was a crutch, that's all. It was only when I stopped that I realised just how important it had been, how much of my life revolved around a beer. The first six weeks were like a waking nightmare, but my editor worked out what I was up to and, to his credit, he helped me. When I sit here now and think about it there are a bunch of people who've been in quiet support: Mickey, Sis and Peter, most of the main staff at the paper. I really should have told her, but she's been someplace else the last six months or so. If truth be told she's probably been in that same place for a lot longer, I was just too wasted to notice. I'm gonna meet them both at the Museum for lunch, for old times sake. Mickey says he's got stuff to do this afternoon: some kind of Gallery opening or something that he's gotta go do lighting for. I can never work out how he ever manages to pay the rent, but he does and thank Christ for both of us that he does. You know, as I look out across Battery Park I think I can safely say that I've learnt more about Mickey in the last seven months than I've ever known in the three years we've shared the apartment. He could have moved out a long time ago and I wouldn't have known. He's still here though, still doing a better impression of Silent Bob than Kevin Smith can. Maybe that's why they hire him for all these weird gigs. Well, according to the battered Timex on my right wrist her flight should have taken off by now. You know, it's that beautiful a day I think I'll walk up to Central Park. Jesus, I must be insane: maybe there's something in this Snapple stuff after all... == The flight between Washington and New York is a lot like the flight between Heathrow and Charles de Gaulle: just time for the cabin crew to tempt you with a packet of peanuts or the early editions, then the "Fasten Safety Belts" sign is back on. I can see Manhattan Island in the distance, the late September sun reflecting off the innumerable glass-clad skyscrapers. I get the same tightness in my stomach as I always do when I see the island from the air: I'm going home. It never diminishes, this feeling of belonging that I have for New York: I don't get excited when I see London, or indeed any other bit of the world in the same way. I personally blame Woody Allen for this. If I'd never seen the first ten minutes of "Manhattan" I'd probably look at this city in the same way that I look at anywhere else I travel to. However, on the night I did it was all meant to be. I can safely point to that particular July evening as one of the most significant nights in my entire life. The night Richard asked me to marry him was the night that I pledged my soul to him and subconsciously to the city. I've never actually seen a Woody Allen film since, and having watched a lot of movies in the intervening period I don't think any of them has really evoked a feeling of quite such intensity. It was as if...the island resonated when I walked out of the theatre, I could hear it telling me this was where I belonged. As we walked from the movies to the restaurant every slab on the sidewalk, every pane of glass was moving with me, propelling me to the moment when Richard handed me the black velvet box and simply asked: "Will you?" With him gone, the city can now have my undivided attention. Maxwell Edgar Ellersley will now be making his way to the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art. I haven't seen him in person for at least nine months now, since his last ride into DC...it was Bartlet's Inauguration Ball. I'd been there in body, but not in spirit. I can vaguely remember Max leaving early with a mystery blonde on his arm, he had flown off back to NY two days later without saying goodbye. A week after that he'd 'phoned in the middle of the night sounding like death and apologising profusely for leaving the way he had. I really can't remember a conversation since where he hasn't sounded awful. The drinking is way out of control. The plane's on final approach now, turning quickly, and I can see La Guardia below us. Mickey's driving me to the apartment and then I think he's going to join us: I'm really nervous suddenly, and I know why. How do I tell Max about the job? == "He's stopped drinking" It's the first thing he's said, apart from "How are you?" since I found him in the pick-up zone. Mickey looks at me for a reaction. I ask him how long it has been since Max had a drink. "He's been going to Alcoholics Anonymous for seven months." Bloody hell. How can Mickey be sure about this? He turns and looks at me briefly before the lights change. "Trust me. He's sober." I sit and digest this minor revelation as Mickey drives. He's going to AA and he never said a word: even in my previously addled state I'd have picked that up in conversation if he'd mentioned it. The reason he sounded so ill was because he was detoxing: he did it on his own. I'm impressed, Maxwell. We're no more than a block away from the house; the day is continuing to be glorious. As Mickey pulls in and parks up I get out of the car and feel an irrational urge to bend down and kiss the sidewalk, papal fashion. Must have been something in the peanuts. Mickey has my bags and I'm about to follow him into the building when he stops and shakes his head. Putting down one bag he points to his watch and then towards the Subway entrance across the street. "You're not coming with me, then?" Mickey shakes his head and turns: in a moment he's picked up my bag and disappeared into the building. Looks like I'm on my own, then. How did Max ever find this guy, anyway? Fishing my Ray Bans from my purse I consider taking a train, but the day really is too good to miss. I want to breathe in the city a bit, and Max is bound to be late. I'll walk.
I check my watch: I'm late, but not by much. Central Park is bustling, the lunch hour is beginning and people are streaming into the park at the entrance I'm walking past. I had to spend a few minutes in the park, I'll come back tomorrow and take a longer walk. I will then shop mercilessly: I need new shoes. I can never have enough pairs of shoes, and I'm going to need at least three pairs for my new endeavours, plus a pair to keep in the office for emergencies. I should investigate a new laptop bag, and maybe a new music-case. I can't abide bulky briefcases. Minimalism is the key. Less clutter, more space. There's the Museum, I'm only ten minutes late. That's completely acceptable, and I'm sure that Max will understand. He does at least share my love for this town more than anyone else. I think I'm going to miss drinking with him: ironic, I spend all that time moaning that he's become a cliché and now he's done something about it. As a result I lose my best drinking partner. I think I'll order a mineral water at lunch. Maybe I should try drinking with Sam again: nothing can be worse than the performance he gave in my den on Saturday night. I wonder if CJ can hold her liquor? I can see Max now, sitting on the steps of the Museum. Lord have mercy, he's drinking a can of Coke: will wonders never cease...? He hasn't seen me yet...no, wait. He has now. He's getting up and even from this distance I can tell he's lost weight. I recognise that jacket...it's the Paul Smith one I chose for him when we all went to London. He really must have lost weight. He looks well. He's stopped drinking. Richard would be proud of him. == I turn and she's there, walking towards me. Fuck, she looks amazing. Better make sure I don't hug her too vigorously, at least until the erection's subsided... "Evelyn" "Maxwell, what the hell happened? You fell asleep and were replaced by a thinner and more competent alien plant double, right?" She's wearing sunglasses, so I can't see her eyes. The cargo pants and t-shirt have Gap written all over them. Hey, I'm fashionable; I know what the kids are wearing... I want to see those deep, dark brown eyes and spend a brief moment drowning in them. I'll have to content myself with a quick feel of her ass as I hug her. "Hands off, Maxwell" She smells of Evelyn, but there's something new in her hair, a scent I don't recognise. She's wearing Richard's Star of David, so no change there. New watch...new walking shoes, no... she doesn't appear any different. Something has changed, though. "I'm going to work for President Bartlet" Fuck, that's a better opening line than "I've not had a drink for seven months" == I just come out with it, as at that moment it seems the most sensible thing to do. He's staring at me with his mouth open. "Fuck, that's a better opening line than "I've not had a drink for seven months" "Language!" There is a moment of awkward silence. "Mickey told me about the drink thing. Part of me wasn't sure whether to believe him or not. Looking at you I'd find it impossible not to believe: you look great, you really have lost some weight" He's still staring at me with his mouth open. == Maybe I should close my mouth. I know I could really do with a scotch about now. I look at her. A week ago she was working for one of the lesser consultancies in DC with a slim to none chance of a major break. One week on, she's working for the White House? My brain has shut down in several areas. My libido is still working, however. If I can re-direct some of its power to my mouth... "How?" "Partly luck, partly circumstance. Mostly Sam Seaborn" "You do know the definition of nepotism, don't you?" "Max, this is off the record, completely and totally off the record. You are to stand here and swear on your Mother's life that you will not say ANYTHING to ANYONE or I swear to God I will rip that erection out of your pants and throw it into the gutter" God, I love it when she talks dirty. Maybe I should try and maintain some composure. "I think maybe we should continue the foreplay inside" == I really did manage to stun Max into silence, at least for a couple of minutes. He's gone to the men's room; something I suspect would have happened a lot sooner if only his hormones hadn't got in the way. I suppose I might, on another day, think it was flattering that I can induce an erection at forty yards. I ordered the Chicken Caesar, Max has a half-eaten stake on his plate. This place has gone up-market since I used to eat here weekly with him and Richard. When Max went to LA for six months I remember Sam came here a couple of times too. On one notable occasion Lisa graced us with her presence: what on earth had Sam seen in her in the first place? Max is coming back. He does look well. "Okay, so where were we?" "You were telling me how you've gotta sign a Confidentiality Agreement?" "First six months, if they don't like me I go." "Who's bright idea was that?" "Mine. " "So, no pressure, then?" I don't want to tell him that Josh ripped up the agreement up in front of me. It was for his benefit, not mine, and in the end he seemed to be happy to take me on trust, at least for now. It would make things easier if Max thought I was under a gag. "So, when are they announcing it?" "Thursday morning. Nine am briefing." He tries to be funny. "Can I leak it? PLEASE???" I ignore him. "Max. If you were to leak this do you honestly think I'd ever make it into the White House? You are Public Enemy Number One in there at present and if it looks as if I've told you anything of any importance I'm not getting out of the building alive" "Josh Lyman. This is about the Golden Boy, he's still pissed about what I said about his boss" "...and what you continue to say, if this morning's paper is anything to go by. Don't knock Josh. I hear he's very good at what he does" Lyman, I hope you appreciate this someday. "You're the one who's been replaced by an alien double...! You really are going to do this, aren't you?" "Max, I created potential out of nothing." "Mandy Hampton had nothing to do with it?. She's going to be incensed when she hears you've taken the job" "I can cope with Mandy. What I can't cope with is you pulling a fast one" "You have my promise, as a sober individual. Not a word" I try and make a serious point. "Max, this could be the most important thing that has EVER happened to me. I have a chance to show the most important person in the United States that I am capable and able of doing a great job. You HAVE to give me a clear and unhindered run at it" Max, to his credit, seems to appreciate my feelings. "I'm sorry, I... I was genuinely in shock before; it's just such a change, and so quickly. If it means that much to you I am certainly not going to do anything to interfere. Despite what you might have thought of me before, I am not a total asshole. I wish you the best of luck" He picks up his glass of water for a toast. "To Ev, and her Big New Grown-Up Job, and to me who promises not to rain on her parade...at least not for the first six months" "Max..." "Only kidding" Clink. == It's her turn to go to the bathroom. She's left me an untouched plate of chocolate torte to pick at, and a lot to think about. I really did believe it was all a big joke, right up to the point where it became clear she was serious. Deadly serious. Jesus and Mary, this woman's going to work at the White House. This of course makes her all the more attractive. I've lusted after this woman for nearly six years, off and on (mostly on, be honest Max) Yes, I admit, I wanted her when she was married to my best friend. I can say that now, not because he's gone but because I did a LOT of expensive therapy to be able to admit it. Richie never talked about the physical side of things to me, I don't think he did to anyone. She and he were not for general consumption. Of late I've tried to work out if it's just lust or something more, maybe because I'm finally able to see things clearer than I could. The jury's out: I'd go to Hell if I lost her friendship, and as I have no intention of falling off the wagon at this stage I think a fantasy is probably the best I should hope for. That might change once she's playing Media Consultant to Bartlet. No, not playing...she'll do it, whole-heartedly, until her last breath or until they drag her from the building screaming. They won't know what's hit them. If Lyman's thinking she'll be a walkover, boy will he ever be in for a surprise. I must 'phone Josh and apologise. == I've only been in the bathroom five minutes and the bugger's eaten all of my chocolate torte... == We've been at Max's for most of the evening. Sting's on the stereo: it's worrying to think that Ellersley's music taste got lost somewhere in the early 1990's. Maybe someone should tell him we're only months away from a new century...no, he'd only worry that the World was going to end and the ATM's weren't going to give him cash. No need to bother with details. Mickey bought a couple of girls back from the Gallery opening. Max tells me they're regular visitors. Nikki is in her early 20's with tattoos and piercings, and a shock of bright yellow hair. Luisa is a little older I'd guess, and is sitting on the stairs below us speaking to her lover on her cellphone, alternating between English and Italian. My understanding of the latter is pretty good even after all these years, and listening in is making for pretty erotic entertainment. Max and I are on the top set of stairs: I'm staying tonight in the guest room Max has created in the attic. The windows are open and the sounds of the city at night seep into the space above us. I have a beer. Max is drinking lemonade. I am proud of him. "I'm sorry about earlier. I was just in denial" Max looks at me hard, he's trying to make up for his earlier flippancy. He really doesn't need to. "You're gonna be amazing at this, I just know you are. Am I allowed to comment about it once it's announced?" "I can't stop you saying what you feel. I can stop you saying what I feel, however" "Look, I promise I won't screw this up for you. Even this bear of very little brain's able to understand what this means" "The consequences are too terrible to speak of" "I like all my body parts exactly where they are...your secrets are safe with me. You want another beer?" I nod, it's my third and I know I'll sleep better with the extra alcohol in my system. I feel like I'm standing in the eye of a hurricane, it's all so worryingly calm at this moment. Give it forty-eight hours and it'll all be irrevocably different. I have to make a statement, I have to take questions. Am I up to this? Of course I am == It's a little after 4.15 and I can't sleep, so I'm sitting here on the top stair watching her sleep instead. I don't want her at this moment; the passion's long gone. I want to just spend time being with her like this, to watch out for her, to make sure she's okay. I hadn't realised until I saw her today how much I'd just missed hanging out with her, having her there to talk to. Now she's going to be tied to Washington perhaps for the next three years. Hey, who knows...if Bartlet really is The Man she might have a secure job until 2006. I'd like job security like that. It's high time I got myself a good woman. I've spent a long time, maybe too long believing this woman was my future...I think maybe I should look to pastures new. I make a mental note to take more than a passing interest in the stream of women my tenant keeps bringing back with him from gigs: it just goes to prove how out of it I must have been. There's one in particular: Maggie is a little older than Ev with a healthy interest in the Mets and a love of 1940's film. How difficult could it be to take her for a meal and to the movies? If Ev can find it within herself to take a chance, I'm damn sure I can. .
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